


Proper Course of Action

by kayliemalinza



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Caning, Discipline, Gen, Light BDSM, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson was a prefect at school. He knows perfectly well how to handle Holmes' behavior.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proper Course of Action

**Author's Note:**

> For historical research, I read through several of the first-hand accounts of UK school canings compiled [on this site](http://www.corpun.com/webschuk.htm).

It is a mild spring afternoon barely a year into their acquaintance when Watson determines that he'll not venture to introduce Holmes to any of his lady friends unless it cannot be helped, or else he is on the very eve of matrimony. Point of fact, Watson bears no responsibility for orchestrating the meeting which demonstrated the need for such a vow, unless he is to be faulted for not hiding Miss Alice Bedell and himself behind a tree when he spotted Holmes skulking about the other end of the park.

The incident which then occurred is too indelicate and painful to be set into narration, particularly as it concerns the reputation of a young lady for whom Watson still maintains some faint feelings, though he recognizes their fruitlessness. The effect of the incident upon the relationship between Watson and Holmes is far more relevant; though Watson is familiar with such frustrations incited by his companion's behavior, never to this point have his passions been so inflamed.

Watson maintains a stony silence for the duration of the cab ride to their rooms at Baker Street, despite Holmes' attempts to puncture it with his nattering or to goad Watson into uttering an impolite word in public. Yet Holmes is effective in nearly any task he sets himself to, so that Watson controls himself only until the moment they cross the threshold into their private parlour. The good doctor has scarcely removed his hat before the turmoil in his breast compels him to set upon Holmes with a frank and heated assessment of his conduct.

Holmes listens with great apparent attentiveness to the initial outburst, though Watson wonders if he is more concerned with shucking his jacket and slipping into his dressing gown.

"Do you honestly believe there was nothing wrong with your treatment of that poor girl?" says Watson, when Holmes' indifferent expression has heated him intolerably.

"It was a sound deduction," Holmes says, tugging at his ratty cuffs. "I shouldn't be surprised if it is entirely true. You'll notice Miss Bedell made no effort to defend herself, most likely because no suitable defense is possible." He drops himself into his customary chair with a maddening smirk.

Watson, remembering the upset which had marred Alice's fine features, responds quite vehemently: "If she had any male relatives in town, they'd have every right to come after you with a horsewhip. Having lately been her suitor, I've a mind to assume the duty myself." Watson only restrained himself from taking Holmes to task immediately after the incident because Miss Bedell had, at that point, already made her dissatisfaction with Watson and the company he chooses to keep quite clear.

Holmes reclines indolently on the chair, unconcerned with Watson's threat. "Don't be so rash, Watson. Your leg has been playing you up. I would be the sure victor were we to enter the ring for gentlemanly combat." He waves his fingers magnanimously. "I would, of course, take great pains not to injure you."

"You insolent–let's dispense with the boxing ring altogether, then. Where's your riding crop?" asks Watson, a very clear course of action having blazoned itself upon his mind.

Holmes takes notice of this newfound vigor, sitting up and watching intently as Watson stalks about the room. "What do you need it for? I don't know where it is. You shan't find it over there," he adds loudly, when Watson nears the globe.

Watson is not stupid enough for that simple diversion to work, but he presently conceives of a better plan anyway. "I'll just use this, then," he says, and pulls a cane from the umbrella stand. It is a slim golden thing of a moderate length with black circles along the staff. The curled handle fits suitably to his palm and, when he grasps both ends, the cane bends tolerably well.

Holmes' eyes open remarkably wide. "I say!"

"Come along, Holmes," says Watson with grim earnestness. He cups his hand at Holmes' elbow and tugs him to his feet. Holmes follows more easily than Watson expected, and makes no sound or movement as Watson surveys their parlour.

It is a terrible mess, with scientific detritus in every corner and more mundane articles, such as waistcoats and boot brushes, littering the floor. Each table-top and chairseat is piled with Holmes' notes and clippings from past cases, and nearly inaccessible due to the accumulation of odd bits at the legs of them much like barnacles clustering upon the supporting posts of a dock. "Into my office, then," says Watson.

Holmes shuffles alongside him with surprising docility. Likely his cooperation stems from curiosity rather than a humble acceptance of his punishment. Holmes is cutting glances at him, eyes narrowed in such a way that one would think he is half-asleep. However, Watson is familiar with his friend's expressions, and knows that he is at this moment greatly engaged.

Watson pushes his desk chair more snugly under to make room, then leads Holmes to the leather-topped exam bench in the middle of the room. He taps it with the cane. "Bend over, if you please," he says. "It'll be six strokes. That is more than reasonable, considering the severity of your transgression. By all rights it should be twelve."

"It is a mystery that I am allowing even one," murmurs Holmes, in the familiar tone he adopts when speaking only to himself. Though he is lowering himself to the bench, it appears that his tardy instinct for self-preservation is now making an appearance.

Watson knows that he must not allow Holmes any time to consider the situation, or else he may devise some argument to get him out of it. Thus Watson says immediately, "You are allowing this because you know full well that your behavior needs mending. Be grateful that I am showing such leniency." Indeed, he has made no movement to lift Holmes' dressing gown from his rear, though a brief thought for Alice's emotional state spurs Watson to consider stripping Holmes down to the bare.

He determines, however, that Holmes' character is much less sensitive to the debasement of the flesh than the subjugation of his mental faculties, and so this exercise in the penitent presentation of his bottom should be effective enough.

Holmes widens his stance when Watson prods the cane urgingly against his calves. The bench rises up to about the middle of Holmes' thighs, causing the man to lean naturally upon his forearms. His back is suitably straight, which Watson appreciates as he considers that a laxness in posture speaks of a laxness in attitude. Holmes has frequently defied this correlation, but as he is not currently on the scent of a criminal misdoing, his eccentricities have no place here.

With the penitent's position so established, Watson places himself at the correct distance and readies the cane. He taps the cane against the seat of Holmes' trousers once to establish his aim, then lays down a quick succession of blows without regard or sympathy for his dear friend's shouts.

At least, that is what he intends; upon the second strike Holmes rises up from the bench with such force that Watson is obliged to leave off his attack and press him back into position again with a heavy hand upon his shoulder.

"Watson! Watson, you're going to do me harm!" Holmes cries out.

"Don't be absurd," says Watson. "I've delivered hundreds such punishments, without dire consequences. I was a prefect in school."

"Then you were a bully," Holmes snaps. He has left off his suitable posture of before, and now curls over the bench with his face pressed into the back of his hands. His voice is muffled by the raggedy cuff of his dressing gown.

"I was not," Watson replies, a trifle hotly. Upon a moment's reflection he adds, "Though some were." His school was reasonable in the matter of discipline, and Watson took great pride and care in his duties as a prefect, but he has heard stories of other schools where the lower students were treated little better than slaves and the prefects were drunk with power. It would be callous to disregard the existence of abuse merely to preserve his own ego and peace of mind. Watson's heart aches to think of his friend as a gloomy and sensitive boy, his brilliance surely misread as cheek, held at the mercy of juvenile tyrants.

He pats Holmes on the back, hoping to demonstrate his honourable intentions. "I doubt you suffered many beatings at all, seeing as you never learned to take them quietly," he says. "Managed to talk your way out of them, did you?"

"Is there any use in reasoning with a beast?" asks Holmes. "No, my dear Watson, I employed blackmail. Oh!" He bucks under Watson's blow and the medical bench scrapes a few inches across the floor.

Watson can only hope that the noise does not disturb Mrs Hudson downstairs.

His mood has been elevated greatly by the familiar ritual; each whistle of the cane through the air and the subsequent jolt of contact which travels up the cane to his arm fills Watson with a sense of triumphant accomplishment. The effect is fairly soothing. His fury of only a few moments earlier has abated fully.

Holmes is feeling much less tranquil, it would seem. His shoulders quiver beneath the thick cover of his dressing gown. He has done well enough not to move away from the bench, likely only by virtue of the strong grip he has upon it. "Watson, I implore you!" he cries, turning his head so that one pathetic dark eye is visible over his arm. "This is too much!"

Watson sets his face into the sternest expression he can muster. He holds great affection for Holmes, but neither of them will benefit from a continuation of such sentiment and ridiculousness. "On the contrary, Holmes, we are merely halfway through. I promised you six strokes, and that is what you shall receive."

"I insist that you–" Holmes lets out another great shout, courtesy of stroke number four. He pants heavily into the dark surface of the bench. "If there is no sympathy in your heart for me, then at least consider that you are upsetting the dog," he says, and twists to direct Watson's attention to the doorway.

Watson looks, but not before he presses his friend down to the bench again; it'll do no good to allow him untoward liberties at this juncture.

Gladstone is standing in the doorway to the messy parlour, his round belly heaving with the effort of having hauled himself over here, just as Holmes' back is rising and falling beneath Watson's palm.

"Back to bed, Gladstone," Watson says. Gladstone tarries, so Watson goes over to shoo the portly creature back to his customary napping spot, out of sight of the examination room. He hears a faint noise and hurries back, but as Holmes is still draped over the bench, the noise was not the result of him escaping through the door or the window as Watson had feared.

Holmes hurriedly removes his hands from under the dressing gown. Watson makes no comment on this; he has been using his full strength, and will not begrudge his friend a moment's rub. He takes this as a sign that his earlier assessment of Holmes' character was correct; Holmes is fully capable of taking the cruelest hits in the boxing ring without snivelling or barely an acknowledgement of his injuries, but this little exercise in submission has had a marked effect.

Watson returns to his place and takes up the cane again. "Now, with no more interruptions, this will be over in a few moments." A proper school caning would have taken barely half a minute. Holmes does enjoy complicating things.

"It shan't," Holmes snaps petulantly. "The welts will last for days, to say nothing of the bruising."

"Then perhaps your behavior will be much improved for the duration," Watson answers. "Now–" He pauses, for as he taps the cane against Holmes' bottom in preparation of the next stroke, he notices a peculiar drape to the dressing gown. Watson flips up the hem of the dressing gown to reveal his dissection pan tethered to Holmes' rear with the aid of a stethoscope. The pan, thankfully, appears to be clean.

Holmes shifts his weight from one leg to the other with an unbelievable casual air, as if there is any chance his ruse has not been discovered.

"Do you truly believe I am such an idiot?" Watson growls.

"Compared to me–" Holmes' voice is muffled, as Watson has splayed the entire skirt of Holmes' dressing gown over his top half, so that he is little more than a petulant lump.

"Unacceptable," says Watson. He tears away the pan and stethoscope and lets them fall upon the floor with a clatter. "There'll be two additional strokes for cheek, and they'll be delivered without the protection of the dressing gown."

Holmes sucks in a sharp breath. "Watson, have mercy!" he cries, but Watson has already pulled back his arm. The bench scrapes across the floor again. Holmes shouts at each stroke, excepting the final one, which wrings from him only a choked gasp. Though Watson cannot be certain without an inspection of the bare skin, he is certain the last stroke fell crookedly, on account of Holmes' squirming. Very disappointing, that Holmes' lack of self-control has ruined what would have surely otherwise been a series of perfectly parallel welts.

No sooner has Watson thought this, however, than he hears a most piteous wet gasp from underneath the dressing gown.

"Oh, my dear friend," says Watson, rushing to draw back the cloth and lift Holmes from the table, with a swift swipe of his thumb across the wettened cheeks.

"It's nothing," says Holmes. He turns his head away, but does not struggle as Watson pulls him into a manly embrace. It is quite irregular to do so; there was certainly never any coddling of the boys at school, as such treatment would be to great detriment in developing their mettle and stiff upper lip. However, Holmes is a fully formed man, in physique and psychology, and Watson has no misconception that he has any lasting effect upon Holmes' person. Most days Watson feels that his own self is being modified by his companion's obdurate nature. Certainly no melancholy sniffles have ever plucked his heartstrings such as these.

"There, there," says Watson, thumping his palm against Holmes' back as if it were Gladstone's thick belly. "Hush now, all is forgiven."

This moment of vulnerability may be a manipulation on Holmes' part, but seeing as the physical damage has been done (Holmes was quite correct as to its severity,) there is no meaningful escape he can make now. Watson does not wish to cause any harm to their friendship. His blood runs cold in his veins to think that this damage, too, has already been inflicted, and he curses himself for a fool.

For the moment, Holmes has his face pressed near indecently into Watson's shoulder, and Watson comforts himself with this until Holmes expels a final sharp breath and pulls away. He wanders out on wobbly legs to the parlour and stands by the chair, as if to settle himself in it. But with a baleful glare at the cushion, which is thin and unsympathetic to his current condition, Holmes arrests his descent and decides instead to lay upon the tiger-skin rug. He wraps himself up in his tattered dressing gown and gazes at Watson sorrowfully.

"I want my pipe," he says.

Watson fetches the pipe.

"Persian slipper," says Holmes, indicating the location of the thing with a toss of his head, and creasing his thick brows at Watson until he endeavors to pull the packet of tobacco from the toe and place it in his hands.

Holmes busies himself with packing the bowl and lighting it. Watson is uneasy standing there idly, watching the black fringe of eyelash flicker over the uncharacteristic red edging. He returns to his office to tidy up the pan and stethoscope and, on a paranoid whim, secret the cane away in his drawer.

When he goes back into the parlour, Holmes has drawn the collar of his dressing gown up over his head so the effect is that of a native child nestled in a papoose. His eyes gleam at Watson through the screen of smoke rising up from his pipe.

"It's time for tea," says Holmes.

"Ah," says Watson. "I'll ask Mrs Hudson to–" He is interrupted by a knock at the parlour door, then Mrs Hudson is edging her way in with the tea tray.

Holmes adopts a smug expression which Watson finds unwarranted. It is not such an amazing deduction to hear a footstep upon the stairs and look at the clock.

"Ah, thank you, Mrs Hudson," says Watson, and reaches for the tray. "Let me take that from you. Holmes, where are your manners?" he adds, for Holmes is lying in the middle of the floor between the door and the tea table. How ridiculous Mrs Hudson would look, trying to step over his outstretched legs with her full skirts!

Holmes draws his feet up, but that slight motion appears to bring his abused rear in cruel contact with the floor, as he lets out a terrible groan. Though the tiger's skin must have provided it great protection in its life, the rug it has become offers precious little cushion.

Mrs Hudson steps back from Holmes, as if he might have some catching illness. "Are you alright, Mr Holmes?"

"You needn't concern yourself," Holmes says, rudely but not unexpectedly so.

The tilt of Mrs Hudson's chin indicates that she is not concerning herself with Holmes' predicament at all. "What was that yelling about earlier?" she asks Watson. "I was worried the neighbors might come knocking to complain."

Holmes puffs deliberately on his pipe, sending Watson such an indignant glance that Watson is tempted to be entirely honest with Mrs Hudson. But Watson cannot bring himself to be so uncouth as to betray the private matters of their friendship, so he explains it as slyly as he knows how: "I was attempting to instill some reason into Mr Holmes and I'm afraid that he took great exception to that."

"A pity," says Mrs Hudson. "I wish you'd pay the doctor more mind," she says to Holmes, before turning to exit. "I've never known a grown man who required so much looking after," she calls back over her shoulder as she leaves. The hem of her skirt skims expertly over the debris in the doorway.

Watson settles himself at the tea table. His eyes light upon the unkind seat of the stool opposite. "Shall I bring a cup over to you?" he offers.

"No," answers Holmes, gingerly maneuvering himself to hands and knees. "I feel curiously invigorated, in fact." He shuffles over to the tea table with a minimum of wincing and helps himself to a biscuit.

"That is a common response to pain," says Watson. He peers into Holmes' eyes, wondering if the pupils are dilated overmuch, but it's no use; Holmes' irises are too dark to distinguish and the light from the window throws distracting shapes against the sclera.

"It has had the most clarifying effect upon my mind," says Holmes, once he's cleared his mouth with a swallow of tea. "Better than a walk."

Watson cannot deny that Holmes appears rather more refreshed. Clearly his brilliant friend has been turning the entire affair over in his mind, worrying it as thoroughly as a factory does a piece of raw material in the process of production.

"I rather think a daily constitutional remains the better option," Watson says carefully. Holmes has very peculiar ideas on methods of invigoration, and though Watson would give anything to banish that detestable morocco case from his friend's habits, he dreads to think what might replace it.

Holmes smiles ruefully in agreement. "Yes. You were hardly gentle," he says. "I'd rather not be subjected to your ministrations too regularly."

"Regular–" Watson very nearly spits out his tea. "Holmes, my wish is never to do that to you again!"

Holmes sniffs. "Yes, you're right," he says, taking a biscuit right from Watson's plate. "The cane is far too brutal. In future, a plimsoll should suffice."


End file.
